You want enough to fill you up. You want more cocaine and more vodka. You want more of all of them, of men, of the things that stick out of them, egos and Marlboro reds and dirty words about banging your perfect ass.
Amanda BoydenMots clés pretty-little-dirty
Decide then as you set your jaw and clench your teeth that you will get rid of your boy. Promise yourself this. You will get rid of your boy as soon as the cocaine and money run out. Promise yourself. Try to remember the word. Promise. Swear.
Amanda BoydenSo what. I'd make up whatever I lacked in other ways. Quickly. Fast, fast. Gimme my cake. It was time to fuck.
Amanda BoydenLet the two cross-tops and junk gin and four no-filter Camels make your heart pound.
Amanda BoydenNot a hope, a prayer; a fuckin' song.
Amanda BoydenYou want to fuck the singer, but you would suck on any of them. A rim job, a piss shower, wouldn't matter. The band plays in nothing but tube socks hung over their cocks and sacks. They can make the socks swing like giant tittie tassels. You've never seen anything so sexy.
Amanda BoydenMots clés red-hot-chili-peppers
We'd run out of coke but not out of time.
Amanda BoydenNothing that comes through synthesizrs can fix you, or give you your fix. Nothing here.
Amanda BoydenDig in the pope's pocket for the bullet, the brown glass vial with the magic top. Snort. Taste chemicals running down the back of your throat. Snort again.
Amanda BoydenKnow the mistake of your dcision before your first step.
Amanda BoydenMots clés pretty-little-dirty
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